Every Move You Make
by ColieMacKenzie
Summary: This is inarguably the worst thing she's ever agreed to. She consciously forces her limbs to relax, tries to block out the knowledge of the set of eyes that are irrevocably fixated on every one of her movements.


**Every Move You Make**

**AN:** Envision this best somewhere mid- to late season 2, though anything before 'Always' basically works.

* * *

_This is inarguably the worst thing she's ever agreed to._

_The flutters in her abdomen leave her nauseous, her mind whirling with a host of emotions she is unable to sort through, powerless to control._

_But it is too late now. There's no turning back._

_She consciously forces her limbs to relax, tries to block out the knowledge of the set of eyes that are irrevocably fixated on every one of her movements._

_She takes a deep breath. Slides her fingers lower._

_Touches herself._

* * *

_1 hour earlier_

The quiet hum of the bar is lulling her senses, the piano music that resonates through the speakers just a backdrop to the chatter and murmur of the patrons around them. The warmth of the alcohol in her blood sends a pleasant buzz through her limbs, a cozy fuzziness to her brain. She is not drunk, only comfortable enough to no longer worry as much about his dangerous proximity.

Castle is perched on a bar stool next to her, turned toward her so that his knee is nudging into her thigh and the point of contact is hot against her skin. He's leaning toward her, their conversation quiet, humming with latent attraction that she is usually adept at ignoring even though she knows it always lies dormant between them, adding subtext to every conversation, every touch, every look.

Kate raises two fingers and the barkeeper slides another couple of gold tequila shots her way. Castle grabs one; they clink the narrow glasses and she downs her drink, the rasp of its flavors racing along her throat and its heat spreading through her body in waves. She's aware that he watches the bob of her throat when she swallows, stares at her mouth when she slams the glass back on the bar, slides her tongue across her lips to gather the lingering flavors of wood and vanilla.

This is dangerous, dangerous territory. Just a drink after work, a casual evening of friends winding down together, but when is it ever just that between the two of them. Everything is heavy, weighed down with suggestion and sexual tension.

"How's your writing going?" She breathes the question toward him, scrambling for safer territory before she realizes the stupidity of that move, adding a discussion about the fictional version of her to this volatile mix, the one that actually sleeps with her writer.

He deflates, his eyelids dropping, leaning toward her a bit further and she notices that he must be just as buzzed because his movements are sluggish, his expressions less controlled.

"I'm not sure I'm getting it right," he sighs, and he sounds so devastated that Kate knows his inhibitions are down because he usually isn't one to freely reveal his insecurities. "_Her_."

"How so?" She slides her hand on top of his thigh, a subconscious move that she only becomes aware of when his eyes lift up to hers in quiet surprise but then she leaves it there, squeezes around the thick muscles in encouragement.

"Her happiness and joy, her _pleasure,"_ he murmurs and he sounds so devastated that it tightens around her heart. She didn't want to be this involved in the fictional version of her yet here she is, _wanting_ this.

She cants forward, closer toward him, the hum in her brain a warning signal that she ignores. "What about her pleasure?"

His face is almost pouty, the disappointment in himself dropping his features, clouding the color of his eyes. "I don't feel like I'm getting it right. Doing it justice." His breath skitters across her face, strong with tequila and the flavor of him.

Kate blinks her eyes up at him and his gaze is blazing. There is a layer of challenge hidden underneath the worries that drown his eyes, and she isn't sure she's ready for the next level that she knows he'll move them onto.

"I don't know what she looks like, just can't seem to conjure up her face when she's enjoying things, life, anything…" He trails off, his voice turning lower and then she feels his palm at her waist, branding her through her shirt. She can't breathe, the blood rushing loudly through her ears.

"What does she look like in the throes of passion, when she just gives in to her pleasure?"

She blinks her eyes open – god when did she close them? Finds his eyes darkened, challenging and vulnerable both, and her heart hammers against her ribcage. He strums his thumb along the curve of her lowest rib.

"Let me watch you, Beckett."

"What?" Her brain skitters to a halt; she guffaws out a laugh at the ludicrous suggestion. He can't possibly mean-

"Just for research."

"No!" The word comes out croaked, and why doesn't it sound as strong and irrevocable as it should? Why do her insides heat up, spark with excitement, gushing wet warmth straight down her middle?

She tries to slide off the bar stool, entangle from the dangers of his suggestion and her own traitorous body but his hand on her waist stills her.

"Kate…" Damn it, when did his voice start yielding such power over her? She freezes; realizes the intrigue is already there, teasing and tempting her with all its implications.

But no, this isn't, she can't-

"Just once," he murmurs, his voice wanton, insistent. "I bet it's the most stunning sight in the world."

She feels nauseous, the flutters through her insides intense and overwhelming , heat rolling through her in waves. She can't; this is impossible and completely ludicrous and she shouldn't-

"Just my face?" She questions, can't quite believe that the words made it out of her mouth. It's just for research, right, and she's his muse, his inspiration. She wants to do this for Nikki.

Oh god she wants to do this.

He nods, staring at her with those dark blue, fathomless eyes.

"Okay," she agrees, her voice stronger than she thought she could sound, sure and challenging, and his mouth falls open as if he didn't actually believe she'd go for it. She would've thought he knew her better than that.

When has she ever backed down from a challenge?

* * *

The warm glow of the lamps on her nightstands is too cozy, too intimate. She flips them off again, plunging her bedroom back into darkness. Then her eyes adjust; she notices how the moon filters through the window, almost white tonight and full, bathing every surface in a bluish tint. This will have to do.

"Sit." She orders him, her nerve endings raw, making her sound bossy and sharp. She points to the armchair next to her window and he complies wordlessly; swivels the chair so that his view would be on the bed once he sat down. Her stomach drops.

On shaky legs she stumbles to her bathroom; tries not to think, just don't think Kate don't think don't think, while she takes off her clothes, piece by piece as if she just planned on going to bed like every other night.

Instead she slips into the cream-colored silk robe that reaches only to her mid-thighs, cinches the belt tight around her waist, takes a deep breath, and steps back into her bedroom.

She wishes she could blame her recklessness on the lull of the alcohol but she knows she's not even drunk. A part of her is still in shock, in raw disbelief that she's actually considering this. But the devil on her shoulder is louder, needling her to be brave, embrace the freedom that comes with being this open, to show him what he's missing, to live a little bit on the wild side again. To live.

"No touching," she barks out the order, sounding like a strict librarian before she realizes that may be counterproductive. He nods, his elbows resting on top of his thighs, and he looks shell-shocked, just as disbelieving as she feels and strangely, that gives her the strength to step toward the bed and slide underneath her sheets. "And no talking."

Then, under the intense gaze of his eyes, she draws the sheets over her, and slides off her robe underneath, boldly dropping it on the floor where he can see it.

For long moments, even the room seems to hold its breath. She can't look, flushes in embarrassment, lying stark naked underneath only a thin white sheet but then he shifts in the chair and her head comes around automatically.

Kate blinks her eyes up at him, finds his fingers pressed to his mouth as if he is intent on trapping any sound. His eyes are dark as the night sky, looking at her with not only want and excitement but so much awe and pride and reverence that the warmth of it flows through her, flushes her body with liquid heat.

This is inarguably the worst thing she's ever agreed to.

The flutters in her abdomen leave her nauseous, her mind whirling with a host of emotions she is unable to sort through, powerless to control.

But it is too late now. There's no turning back.

She consciously forces her limbs to relax, tries to block out the knowledge of the set of eyes that are irrevocably fixated on every one of her movements.

She takes a deep breath. Slides her fingers lower.

Touches herself.

Closing her eyes, she tries to ignore his presence, tries to concentrate only on what she feels as her fingertips slide between her folds where she is swollen with arousal, wet and ready. She slithers along her skin, can't stop thinking about how he watches her; feels clumsy in her movements, weird and shy and embarrassed.

Then her hips jerk when she grazes past her clit and she gives up all pretenses; he_ is_ here, after all, it is impossible to ignore that fact so she may as well embrace it and so she imagines it's his fingers touching her, circling and teasing the aching bundle of nerves.

Slipping a finger inside of her, envisions that it is his thicker ones gliding through the wetness when she adds a second finger, presses against the rough cluster of nerves on the inside wall. She's aching for his touch, for him to just move, move; she presses the heal of her hand to the outside, hard pressure sandwiching the sweet spots of her body and hears herself moan; she's climbing fast, almost embarrassingly fast; oh god it's never this intense, this strong just with her own touch but the dark knowledge of being watched, by _him_, of his eyes on her, his intense study of her every move is salacious, a turn-on like nothing she's ever experienced.

Kate arches high off the bed, the stark intensity almost overwhelming and yet she needs more, grasps her fingertips around her nipple and squeezes, the bold touch sending lightning bolts of searing pleasure straight to her middle. She drops a foot to the floor, giving herself some leverage, some solid ground as she writhes on the mattress, her legs wide, her hips no longer under her control and the sheet starts slipping; she can feel it slithering off her body almost in slow motion but she can't stop it, doesn't want to, doesn't care any longer when she can feel an intense orgasm already coming on, its high looming just barely out of reach.

Cold air rushes across her flushed skin, over the moist heat between her legs and she knows she is completely exposed and it gives her a high like nothing she's ever felt before, letting him see her like this, open and exposed, wanton and passionate and delirious with pleasure, this part that is also her. She slides in and out, varies pressure with teasing circles of her nerves, enraptured with knowing that he can see all of her, shape and color and glistening wetness. The quivers start spreading and she presses hard onto herself and shatters, her insides squeezing around her fingers, her muscles clenched in a high arch above the mattress. She bites down hard on her lip, trapping the sound of his name in her mouth.

She lies sprawled, can barely move, her limbs heavy, her body shocked, gasping for breath with her eyes squeezed closed; she can't look, can't think, isn't sure she can face the awkward consequences of this moment. She shivers.

The soft steps of his feet on the carpet are almost silent and yet she hears him move closer, step up to the bed. And then he covers her up with the sheet, slowly sliding the fabric from her ankles all the way up to her shoulders, before he quietly retreats and sits back down. No wise cracks or suggestive comments, no anything. She feels her heart twist. Curling in on herself she rolls over on her side, wrapped tightly into the sheet, and finally finds the strength to blink her eyes open to look at him.

Castle is staring at her, the darkness of the room making his eyes seem black, almost unreadable though she imagines seeing a host of emotions they are not ready to face.

"So did you like it?" She flinches when she hears her own voice; didn't intent to sound so defiant but now, past the delirious high, the embarrassment is trying to swallow her whole and the best defense is a good offense, right?

"Kate…" His voice is low, roughened, sending fresh shivers along her spine. "It was the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life."

Warmth trickles through her blood at his words, flushes her skin, the sentiment sincere and stunned and a touch melancholy.

He gets up once more, walking toward her until he stands by the side of the bed, watching her intensely. He runs his index finger over her forehead, down the curve of her face and her eyes fall closed, overwhelmed with the tenderness of his caress.

His fingertips travel down further, over her arm, trace its length from shoulder to wrist, just a flutter of a touch before he lets his hand fall away.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

And he leaves.

_The End_


End file.
